


the witching hour

by curiositykilled



Series: a small clock seen faintly [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Baby natasha, Domestic Disputes, F/F, Gen, Memory Alteration, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Red Room, Secrets, sort of, subtly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 07:28:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3319085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the dark things come out from hiding</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

               “Looks like we finally caught our ghost on film,” Howard announces.

                Peggy finishes off the last curving tail of the ‘p’ she’s writing and caps her pen before looking up. He’s standing directly in front of her desk, fiddling with a skinny folder.

                “Which?” she asks tiredly. “We have a few.”

                Howard passes over the file, flicking loose the closure.

                “Our favorite,” he answers. “Looks like he got a little careless in Algeria.”

                Sure enough, the first document in the folder is a photo, of - something. Peggy glances up skeptically to check Howard’s smug expression for a joke but sees nothing. Turning back to the blurry, over-enlarged photo, she scrutinizes it for a few moments: most of it is a grainy black, the sort that comes from a low resolution camera in poor light, and the only clearly defined part of it is a seemingly shiny arm with a darker star on the bicep. There might be shoulders attached, and she can almost make out a blur of hair, but it’s hard to say. Even with the arm’s striking color difference, only the upper part is visible, hit by a stray sunbeam from an unseen window.

                “Careless,” she echoes, dry. Releasing a sigh, she taps her pen twice against the desk.

                It would be easier if this ghost ever _was_ careless. They know of him not through any actual evidence but through the holes where it should be, like data systematically wiped from a computer bank.

                “A security camera got another one of him leaving, but it’s not a whole lot better,” Howard explains. “Shaggy hair and a metal arm, but that’s about all we can tell.”

                “Metal arm? It’s not armor?” Peggy queries, the phantom ache of a long-healed concussion twinging through her right temple.

                “Too small,” Howard replies. “I mean, it’s hard to tell, but his arms look about the same size. Anyway, metal armor’d be a helluva’ lot bulkier.”

                She wants to refute, point out the light bulletproof vests he helped design for the SSR and even the Commandos, but she knows what he means. Even that slim garb added the bulk of a wool coat. To have it fully articulated around an arm would certainly be chunkier than the image suggests. Instead, she nods and draws out the second photo. It shows a somewhat clearer image of a man’s broad back and upraised silver arm, but the figure still seems to be dissolving into the darkness in the photo, details completely lost. After a few moments of scrutiny, she can almost convince herself that she recognizes that swaying stalk caught halfway through a step, but that’s impossible.

                “Your Russian have anything?” she prompts, mostly rhetorically.

                “He doesn’t have a lot,” Howard hedges, and Peggy immediately fights the instinct to snap back snidely, “but he did say that he’s heard of the - uh, ‘Winter Soldier.’ Seems pretty spooked.”

                “Poetic name, for a hitman,” she remarks. “How spooked?”

                Howard’s mole, an anonymous Russian scientist who has yet to offer anything to support his title of ‘mole,’ is perhaps the most consistent source of friction between them - right after his priorities. Somehow, despite being co-director, SHIELD has never quite beat money to the top of his list.

                “Thought I was trying to burn him,” Howard admits. “Apparently, it’s top level shit. He told me he’d have to go under for a while to not get attention.”

                Stifling a sigh, Peggy drops her pen and turns to the rest of the file. Howard tugs up a chair to the opposite side, accepting half the briefs stacked beneath the photos. There are six, one from each operative, and very little of any of them have to do with the ghost they’re chasing. Still, it doesn’t hurt to look over them and oversee grunt work a little more personally than they usually do.

           “What about the briefs from Dien Bien Phu?” Howard asks abruptly. “Wasn’t there a firefight that went cock-eyed?”

           Peggy frowns faintly, scouring her brain. It sounds familiar, in the vague way trivial things do after they’ve had more pressing issues piled on top.

           “I’ll call down to archives,” she says, standing.

           She pauses a moment, hand on the back of her chair. Howard’s returned to reading through one of the briefs, a legal pad beside him dotted with his slanting cursive notes. His handwriting’s neat but narrow, all the skinny letters pointing to the right with their sharp, angled tips.

           “This is going to take some time, isn’t it?” she asks, knowing the answer.

           Howard huffs a laugh, glancing up at her.

           “Well, I wouldn’t make too many other plans for the evening,” he replies, dry.

           She doesn’t bite her lip, because she trained herself out of those tics back when she was first in boarding school, but it’s a near thing. _This is your job_ , she reminds herself brusquely and clicks out of the office to an outside phone. There are two sitting on her desk, inches from where the files she’d been perusing sit - one red, one black - but this first call requires more delicacy than Howard’s audience would allow.

           “Hallo, Angie talking,” Angie greets.

           “Hello, Angie, it’s me,” Peggy replies.

           “Oh. Peggy,” she says, tone shifting.

           “Something’s come up at work,” Peggy explains. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it out tonight. Tell Norman and Frank I’m terribly sorry, won’t you?”

           “Yeah. Of course,” Angie mutters on the other end.

           Peggy hesitates, free hand cupping the bottom of the receiver. She has more experience with reading people than she cares to admit, but she hasn’t been able to parse Angie’s mood for the last week. What it is that has her bothered is a mystery that pulls at Peggy's chest like a misplaced grappling line - down, down, down, right through the open bottom of her ribs. She can’t seem to catch onto a ledge to break her fall.

           “I’ll see you when I get home, perhaps?” she offers, uncertain.

           “Sure,” Angie agrees, but the promise is hollow. “‘bye.”

           She hangs up, and Peggy’s left holding a silent receiver to her ear. Pressing her lips flat, she disconnects and dials down to the file room. Immediately, one of the archivists picks up, and it takes him only a few minutes to find the files she requests. She meets him at the door, thanks him politely, and forcefully pushes down her concerns about Angie as she returns to her office.

           “Found them,” she greets Howard, dropping the stack on the middle of her desk.


	2. Chapter 2

                They bring men, sometimes, for it to beat and to beat it. The latter is rarer than the former, the men too weak and slow to do little more than scratch at the hard metal case protecting their most valuable asset. That is the case today, where it barely needs to think to block the first man’s punch, the second’s knife. It’s restless today, itching with a strange need to move, to fight, to get out, but these men are little more than gnats to be pinned and incapacitated within three easy breaths. It stands, unmatched fists clenched at its sides, and it _wants_.

                The sensation only adds to the buzz beneath its skin. It doesn’t know how to want, doesn’t know what it means to think beyond what they have provided, but the feeling is familiar - like a scene it knows it’s seen despite knowing there’s no way it could have. _Deja vu_ , an unwanted voice suggests. It growls and shoves futilely at the voice. It has no need for artefacts today, no wish to visit with the spectres of a dead man’s ghost.

                Beyond the perimeter of the training ring, technicians shuffle and scurry about in nervous, flustered twitches, and Control sits placid and pale in the middle of them. He alone is unmoved by the asset’s tensing shoulders and curling fingers. The only sign he gives of even noticing its behavior is the appraising look in his beady grey eyes. _Like a fucking opossum_ , the voice mutters, but the asset doesn’t recognize the word, can make no connection between Control and this foreign object - only that there is one. The itch increases, turning inwards, and the asset burns with sudden hatred for the man whose body it wears. What right does he, this ghost, have to endanger HYDRA’s work? Why can’t he just leave it alone?

                “Sir, I think - I think perhaps he should be - he um, he needs wi-” a technician stammers, terrified.

                “Nonsense,” Control sniffs disparagingly. “How many men was that? Five? Try ten.”

                The technician blanches, face only a slightly yellower shade of his lab coat’s white. He doesn’t protest, though, merely swallows twice, twitches a nod, and hastens to do Control’s bidding.

                Ten men are sent in. Three are guards from directly outside the door with their rifles removed; they still carry pistols and combat knives. The other seven carry mixed weapons from bare hands to garrots. They come first with their hands empty, trying to grab onto it and take it down through human force. It ducks under one guard’s arm, grabs the gun from his hip, shoots him in the back, shoots the man behind him in the face. The next man goes down when it elbows him in the face with the left arm. He’s not dead, but the force is more than enough to stun him. It stamps down on his throat. Technicians are yelling in the background, but it keeps moving. Another shot to a man’s face, straight through his forehead.

-          _“Damn, Buck,” an appreciative tone, a strange mix of awe and sadness -_

                No. Bypass.

                It takes him three minutes and twenty five seconds to take them down; six from bullets, three with their throats crushed, and one with his skull beat in. It turns, pistol still in hand; the four technicians still in the room go down like pigeons, too scared and stupid to run away. Control hasn’t moved. He sits, hands clasped neatly over the polished handle of his cane, and he watches it with those chilly grey eyes.

                “Are you quite done?” he asks, disdainful.

                It would take one shot. The muzzle is lined up perfectly with his dome-like forehead. One twitch, and he’s dead. _Just fucking shoot him._ The asset’s arm lowers, gun pointed to the floor.

                “Good. Now clean this mess up,” Control orders.

                The gun drops to the ground with a muted thud, and it turns, kneels to scoop up the first of fourteen corpses. Its eyes never stray back to the discarded gun with its forty-four unused bullets.


	3. Chapter 3

                It’s after ten o’clock when she finally pushes her chair back and tells Howard they've looked long enough for one night. Files from seven missions are scattered in small piles across her office and desk, and they pick them up together before Peggy finds her pumps and shoos Howard from her office. Angie will have been in bed for a good hour by now, and Peggy allows herself a few minutes of wistful musing while she drives home. There will undoubtedly be a cup of tea - cold, now - waiting on the counter. Angie’s own mug will be washed and drying upside down on one of their checked kitchen towels, her dressing robe hung neatly in the bedroom beside Peggy’s own. She will have missed Angie’s sleepy kisses after she’s brushed her teeth, the bite of mint on Peggy’s tongue that’s always nearly gone by morning.

           Sighing, she pulls into a clear spot on the street and locks the car before heading upstairs to their apartment. As expected, the lights are all off except for a single lamp in the living room, under which sits a familiar tea cup. She hangs her coat and hat, closes her briefcase in the hall closet, and is stepping into the living room when she freezes. The tea isn’t the only thing waiting for her.

           “Peggy,” Angie greets evenly.

           She’s still in her dress, makeup untouched despite the hour, and in the mostly-dark apartment, it looks like warpaint. For a single, ridiculous moment, Peggy wishes she hadn’t taken her coat off and left her arms bare.

           “What are you doing up, Angie?” she asks, forcing her voice to stay easy. “I thought you’d be in bed.”

           “Well, I wasn’t too tired after staying in tonight, so I figured why not wait up for you,” Angie answers, the same purpose behind her too-sweet voice.

           She’s a talented actress most the time, but she’s wound too tight right now. Her stage makeup’s flaking at the edges, just enough for the lights to catch it. Peggy steps warily around the sofa, mindful of trip-wire and mines.

           “Did you not go out with the boys?” she asks.

           “No, Peggy, I didn’t,” Angie snaps, breaking her character.

           She’s never been good at this, always just charged in headfirst. It’s something Peggy has never been able to decide if she admires or pities. It is undoubtedly responsible for them being together - without Angie's straightforwardness, Peggy would have tiptoed around the subject for decades. Still, it leaves Angie open, vulnerable with no one to watch her back.

           “Why not? I thought you enjoyed going out with those two,” Peggy remarks, sliding off her pumps.

           “Yeah, I do,” Angie agrees, “but y’know what I don’t like? Being lied to.”

           “Ang-” Peggy starts.

           Angie’s voice is rising, a flush spreading across her nose to span both cheeks. Any minute, tears will well in those light eyes - and Peggy, for once, has no clue what to do.

           “The Branch Manager of the phone company doesn’t need to stay till ten at night,” Angie spits, “and she definitely doesn’t have to talk in code when she calls in sick!”

           Peggy freezes, paranoia slithering between the layers of her skin.

           “Angie-” she interjects, voice lowering.

           “When I moved in with yu, I knew you were gonna’ keep your secrets, okay? I knew it, and I thought it was okay. It was worth it. ‘Cause I love you and you - but if you don’t - if you’re done with this, then say it. Don’t keep jerkin’ me around,” Angie finishes, voice pitched a decibel down and an octave up from yelling.

           She swipes at her eyes, brusque, and sniffs once. She’s always hated this, Peggy knows, learned when Angie came back from telling her family she was moving to Washington. There’d been tears in her eyes and fists in her hands then, too.

           “Angie, I’m not-” she breaks off, forces herself to exhale. “I would never cheat on you. I swear.”

           Angie’s eyeing her doubtfully, arms crossed tight across her chest like they’re the only thing keeping her together.

           “You swear on Steve Rogers’ grave?” she demands.

           The breath leaves Peggy like she’s been kicked in the gut. _How-?_ she wants to ask, but it doesn’t - _that’s not the point._ Not right now, anyway.

           “If he had one,” she promises instead, voice shaky.

           Angie nods once then, but her arms don’t loosen.

           “Then what’re you up to?” she prompts, still taut and skeptical.

           “Do you recall the incident in New York, when the SSR was looking for me?” Peggy starts.

           “Little hard to forget a bunch of cops running ‘round looking for the girl you’re sweet on,” Angie answers, dry.

           Despite herself, Peggy’s lips quirk in the tiny cousin of a smile.

           “Yes. Well. I worked for them during the war and for a while after,” she explains. “They were a strategic logistics division devoted to finding a scientific means to end the war, and, after, to protect the nation. They achieved some great triumphs, of course, but their scope was limited. They saw only the options of a war-born organization centered in America. Howard Stark and I - we saw more.”

           She hasn’t spilled anything classified yet, only outlined what knowledge is available to anyone who knows where to look.

           “I moved to DC because we decided to found a new institution, called SHIELD, that’s dedicated to a broader view of protecting the world from extragovernmental attacks,” she finishes, willing Angie to understand.

           At the moment, Angie’s staring at her, forehead creased in a frown and eyes narrowed. Her eyes are dry, though, and the skepticism has been traded in for bewilderment instead. Overall, it’s an improvement.

           “So, you’re what - the FBI’s super secret little brother?” she finally asks.

           Peggy hesitates before nodding slightly.

           “More or less,” she allows.

           She would like to point out that the FBI has nowhere near SHIELD’s network nor its international capability, but that _would_ be classified. And, really, she’s never been a fan of pissing contests.

           “Jesus,” Angie breathes out, dropping down into her armchair. “I’m dating a spy.”

           Her arms loosened as she fell back, settling on the armrests absently.

           “I don’t do much spying nowadays,” Peggy confesses. “I really am more of a manager.”

           Angie’s eyebrow raises, clearly asking what difference that's supposed to make. It drops after a moment, dipped in a slight, considering frown while she chews at her lip. Before her, Peggy stands bare and uncertain, like a defendant without a defense. She won’t blame her if Angie decides she wants out, if she doesn’t care for Peggy’s absences any more than she did when she thought them an affair. She hasn’t told her anything sensitive, won’t even need to trust in a contract or Angie’s word that she won’t tell anyone. She’ll be alright.

           She doesn’t really feel like it, though. Once upon a time, when she was young and thought she’d seen enough of the world to determine the rest of her future, she’d sworn she’d never fall in love. It seems she has a habit of breaking that particular promise.

           “Hey, c’mere,” Angie says, breaking into Peggy’s dismal planning.

           Her hands are extended, palms up, in a clear invitation, but Peggy still hesitates. She’s wrapped herself too far in Angie as it is. If it’s going to end now, she’d rather avoid the shrapnel. But Angie’s eyebrows and the corners of her lips lift slightly in that silent entreaty Peggy can never deny. She steps into the blast zone and rests her hands lightly on Angie’s open palms.

           “I’m not mad at you, Pegs,” Angie starts. “I mean, don’t get me wrong: I was pissed as hell. But I’m not so much anymore. I just...it’s just a lot to take in. I really did think you were the Branch Manager or at least somethin' like it. Just thought you were gettin' into something on the side.”

           Her expression’s shifted into a self-deprecating smile and Peggy’s lips tremble a little.

           “If you - if you’re willing, I am,” Angie promises. “Spy or not.”

           Her fingers curl up around Peggy’s palms, warm and soft despite the gentle catch of her callouses against Peggy’s.

           “Okay,” Peggy whispers. “Okay.”

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

            There are ten girls out here, somewhere. _Find and incapacitate them. Do not kill them._ It’s an off-day, one where the asset is wobbling along the edge of a knife but isn’t completely useless. The artefacts have been sparse today, only showing up once and even that was just a brief snippet of conversation that could have come from anywhere. He feels the arm too much, now, but his mind is clear, neutral.

            He finds two girls tucked together, barely hidden under the scrubby branches of a ragged bush. He knocks the first out with the back of the hand, breaks the other’s leg when she tries to run away.

            Eight left.

            There’s a steady babble of noise out here, lilting and varied in a way the incessant hum-and-click of cryo isn’t. It’s soothing, somehow, that he knows this is real - not just a strange fever dream. The girls are good; they’ve split apart and covered their tracks. He’s still better. The next three are within fifty square meters of each other, all tucked into different niches. He shoots the hand one is using to hold onto a tree, then shoots the thigh she used to reestablish her grip. She falls with a pained yelp, but he’s already moved onto the girl burrowed under a thick blanket of leaves and loam. He snaps her wrist in his left hand and chokes her out. The third freezes in front of him; he slams her head into a nearby tree and lets her fall.

            Five left.

            These girls are better than the first, of course, but it only takes him five minutes to find the next one and two more after that, then one last. These are knocked out easily; only one gets her shoulder dislocated when she tries to fight back.

            One left.

            He steps carefully, silent in the brush. He has never lost a target, he knows. This girl won’t be the first. There are the fragments of a trail leading down towards the creek, and he hesitates only briefly before following. There’s an itch at the back of his neck, a quiet murmur of _I don’t like this_. Still, it’s mostly covered - better than the other girls he’d followed, but still the work of an amateur. He follows.

            Two hours later, he is circling the perimeter of the walled-in forest and no closer to finding the last girl. The trail had led to tree pockmarked with fresh wounds from a knife and stubborn fingers. That had led to another tree which had led to the ground and a vanished trail. He can’t remember the last time he was challenged - can’t remember much, if he’s honest. It is both intriguing and tiring. He can feel the ghostly fingers of a spectre crawling around the edges of his mind, and fending it off while seeking out this seemingly invisible child is wearing him down to nothing. Stopping back at the start of the false trail, he gives up and lets it come.

_“C’mon, Buck,” Becca pleads. “Ma ain’t really gonna tell you to get out if you come around.”_

_He sighs, shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. It’s hot as hell, sun beating down like a goddamn oven, and he was sick of this conversation the moment it started. Now, he’s just roasting in his own angry, shameful juices._ Christ, Beck. Can’t you just drop one damn thing? _Glancing over his shoulder, he stops to wait for Steve._

_“Ma was there when he kicked me out, Becca,” he sighs instead. “And you know she ain’t gonna’ go against Dad’s rule.”_

_“Oh, hell,” Becca snaps, stopping as well. “Lord alive, can’t he ever keep up?”_

_He turns around then, hackles raising. It’s too hot to deal with either of these conversations, but she knows where he draws the line._

_“Leave him outta’ this,” he growls before leaving her to walk back to Steve. “Hey, Stevie, y’doing alright?”_

_He’s white as a sheet, even paler than his normal three-steps-from-death’s-door shade, and rubbing at his chest. Bucky doesn’t wait for a reply, just loops his arm around Steve’s back and starts leading them to a nearby bench. Becca rolls her eyes but follows. Steve all but collapses onto the seat, his breath short but not quite so strained as an asthma attack._ Thank God _, Bucky thinks. He keeps his arm around Steve’s shoulders, fingers rubbing absently at that crooked spot in his back._

_“Just keep breathing, Stevie,” he soothes. “We ain’t in a rush.”_

_“‘m fine,” Steve mutters._

_“Sure y’are,” Bucky agrees drily, settling back on the bench._

_Steve still manages to shoot him a look from under his bangs, but he’s forced to shift his attention away quick enough, still rubbing at his chest. His asthma attacks scare Bucky half to death, but sometimes he can’t help wishing for them over Steve’s other ailments. It’s easier to know what to do when armed with an inhaler and a clear problem than it is when it’s just his heart struggling to keep up._

_“Just - tired,” Steve finally admits._

_“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “No problem. We got time.”_

_Becca drops down on his other side with a huff. She’s itching to get back to their conversation, he knows, but she won’t bring it up in front of Steve. She’s good like that._

            It passes, and he’s slumped sideways against a tree with the world spinning in lazily tilted loops. There’s a voice, clear and loud this time - not in his mind, then.

            “Return to base, Soldier,” it orders, and he goes.


	5. Chapter 5

Later that night, when they’re curled loosely around each other, Peggy finally finds it in herself to bring it up.

“Angie?” she asks quietly.

There’s a quiet hum against her collarbone.

“How did you know about Steve?” she asks.

Hot breath puffs against Peggy’s skin, fluttering the neckline of her nightgown.

“You always had a picture of ‘im on your vanity in New York,” she explains. “I mean, he musta’ been twelve in the photo, but that’s not a real forgettable face.”

“Twenty-four,” Peggy corrects quietly.

“Damn scrawny for a grown man,” Angie mutters.

They’re both quiet for a few moments after that.

“You two...” Angie starts. “You worked together, right?”

“Yes,” Peggy agrees with a soft laugh. “I worked with the Howling Commandos for much of the war.”

“So that’s why the Barneses like you so much,” Angie surmises.

“I don’t actually - Sergeant Barnes and I weren’t close,” Peggy admits.

Angie pulls back, lifting her head an inch or so to scowl. Even with only the glow of the streetlight outside, the secondhand indignation is apparent.

“What? Wait, he wasn’t one of those guys who seem real nice an’ then turn into jerks ‘cause you won’t let ‘em into your pants, was he?” she demands, hackles raised.

Peggy pulls her close, hiding a faint smile.

“No, I don’t think so. We were both a bit jealous of Steve’s attention, I believe,” she admits.

“ _Oh!_ ” Angie exclaims in a breathy huff. “Bucky Barnes was - uh _boogie-ing_ with Captain America?”

“No!” Peggy yelps before laughing. “No, not - I’m fairly certain he wasn’t queer. They were just very close. Brothers in everything but blood, I suppose.”

“Had me goin’ there for a minute,” Angie laughs, nestling down into Peggy’s arms. “Bucky Barnes a queer. Wouldn’t that give people something to talk about.”

Peggy smiles a little at the touch, distracted. It’s absurd. Bucky Barnes was a lady’s man of the highest caliber; Peggy’s relatively certain that she’s among the minority in women he couldn’t seduce. She’s also certain that he wasn’t trying much with her. She saw the way he looked at Steve, and it wasn’t doe-eyed or that childish awe so many of the soldiers wore. It was like a sailor who knew he was going to drown but couldn’t bring himself to swim away from the ship.

 _It was nothing._ she chides her too-tired imagination. _We all wanted to go home._


	6. Chapter 6

                She’s a red-head, it turns out. Big blue-green eyes in a broad, pale face, topped off with a shock of sunset-red hair. She stares at him while they wait, surreptitiously, of course. Just quick little glances out of the corner of her eye. She’s seven, maybe. Something in him softens and hurts at her big pale eyes. They’re too familiar, even though he’s sure they’ve never met.

                He’s not really supposed to, he knows, but he finds himself reaching behind his head and unclipping the mask anyway. The goggles come off as well, and her eyes widen briefly before she catches herself. He tries on a smile, a small one that still doesn’t quite feel right on his lips.

                “Y’don’t got a cigarette in that little jumper, do ya’?” he asks.

                His voice is rough and a little sore coming out, like it’s dragging across his vocal chords. She twitches to stare straight at him then, eyes stretched wide. He focuses on the mask, fiddling with it with his hands hanging loosely between his knees. He’s still armed, but everything’s holstered.

                “Weird, ain’t it? They gave a robot an addiction,” he chuckles quietly. “Not sure why they bothered.”

                The little girl frowns, then, tentatively reaches out one small hand. It hovers over his own for a moment or two before finally settling gently on his. Her touch is light as a flower petal’s, ready to flit away at the first sign she’s misstepped. He releases that hand’s hold on the mask and shifts it slowly, carefully so that her hand’s resting on his palm. In his left hand, the mask hangs like a stark black warning.

                “What’s your name?” he asks.

                Her lips part before closing slowly. She swallows.

                “Natalia,” she finally answers.

                “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Natalia,” he replies. “I don’t imagine I’ll remember you long.”

                He’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry guys. I have a feeling the next one's going to be really heavy Bucky&Nat and Peggy&Becca, but idk. This one was a struggle - I've got at least three starts saved on Drive. Alas, I'm still going to have to revise this at some point.


End file.
